


Extra Credit

by Lywinis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Capsicoul - Freeform, Darcy Lewis is zen master, F/M, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Slice of Life, preslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson accepts a position as Professor of Military History at NYU. Moving into his apartment, he meets one Steve Rogers, a student at the same university. Phil learns a lot more about his neighbors than he thought he ever would, including the kid from Brooklyn across the hall that goes out of his way to cross their paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01  - Phil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil moves in, meets his neighbor, and one of his fellow professors. As it so happens, he's terrible at flirting. This surprises no one but him.

Why he had decided to move into a brownstone onto the fourth floor when the building had no working elevator, he had no idea. The rent was cheap, for one, and the commute wasn’t back breaking. That was important. He was, however, on his third load of stuff and he was already winded. Not to mention he’d need help getting the couch and the bed up the stairs. Where the hell was Clay? He was providing beer and pizza, the least his best friend could do would be to show up.

He sighed over the box of books, thick treatises on the Korean peninsula and the 38th parallel. He was out of shape, almost woefully so, and he resolved to find a gym with a boxing ring when he got settled in. For now, however, he was doughy, almost squishy, and he made a face at the pudge a more sedentary lifestyle had given him. A couple of weeks at the gym with a body bag would fix it. He hoped.

The last box was always the heaviest, Phil mused as he lugged it up the stairs. Too bad this was the _third_ box and he still had a moving truck full of them. Books, his modest collection of CDs, a few knickknacks, and while he didn’t have much else, he had a lot of books.

That was what he got for accepting the position at NYU, however. Their military history professor had resigned, and Phil had hopped on the chance to become a professor in his own field. He was well-qualified, but the spot in his home town of Boston had been filled for years, with no sign of being freed up. It was fine with him, but when the spot had opened in New York, he’d jumped at it, going from teacher’s aide directly into the arena with an impressive paper on the movements and tactics used by Rommel in his war in the African desert during World War II.

Phil sighed again, and resumed lugging the box of books up the stairs. He was going to have a hell of a time finding someone to help him get that couch up the stairs if Clay didn't show. He scowled, turning the corner on the last set of steps and almost fell over trying to avoid a young man built like a brick wall.

"O-oh, sorry," he said, looking up. Blue eyes met his, and the man smiled.

"It's no big deal. Moving in?" The young man was blond, broad shouldered and trim-waisted, and Phil caught sight of an NYU t-shirt over a pair of jean clad legs that were incredibly long.

"Yeah, just got here. I'm moving into 4-D."

"Oh, then you're right across the hall from me." The young man broke out a sunny smile. "Steve Rogers, 4-F. Want a hand?"

"I...you know what, it's Clay's loss. Sure. I'd appreciate it. I'll spring for beer and pizza." Phil shifted the box and offered a hand, which Steve took. He had a firm handshake, which Phil appreciated. "Phil Coulson."

"Oh, it's no trouble. Your truck downstairs?" When Phil nodded, Steve squeezed by and took off at a jog down the stairs. Phil padded into the apartment and set the box down before following.

"It's got to be a pain, lugging all this stuff upstairs, what with the elevator broken," Steve said as Phil joined him at the truck.

"Well, you can't argue with the rent," Phil said. Steve nodded and hopped up, passing a box of books down to him. "You study at NYU?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "I'm majoring in architecture, but minoring in art history." He hopped down with a box under each arm. "Why, your alma mater?"

"My new job, actually." Phil smiled, and they made their way upstairs. "I'm teaching military history as the new professor."

"Cool," Steve said. "Nice to meet you, definitely. I heard the old professor's class was a pain to get through."

"Well, if you're not ready to learn and avoid the material, it will be," Phil said. "Just like any other class. I like my students to have enthusiasm."

"No argument there," Steve said. "That's why I'm in art and not in Law School like Ma wanted. If Uncle Sam's gonna foot the bill, I'm gonna do what I want to do, not what people think I should."

"Army?" Phil asked. "I did my stint as a Ranger in the 87th."

"No kidding." Steve grinned as they rounded the corner and made it into the apartment. "I'm with the 182nd Airborne, or I was. I did my four years and hopped right out into college."

"Good on you, son," Phil said. "You did your duty, and nobody can argue with that."

Steve set down the boxes. "I hope you like it here. There's another professor who shares the same digs. He lives in 4-C. I think he's...Physics? He doesn't come out much, keeps to himself. Good guy, though. Name's Banner."

"Banner, huh?" Phil said as they jogged downstairs. Steve was easy to talk to, and the extra hand was nice when getting all the boxes up. They managed to lug the sofa and bed up the stairs, along with Phil's table and chairs, chatting the whole way. Phil popped to the corner market and came back with a case of cold beer, which he cracked open and set in the fridge before toeing boxes out of the way.

"You want a beer now, Steve?" he called.

"Sure," Steve said, and caught the can with practiced ease. He cracked it open and took a long, appreciative swallow. "Is that the last of your stuff?"

Phil came back and plopped down, opening his own beer. "Last of it, yeah, all that's left is to take the truck back. Thanks a lot, you saved me a hell of a hassle."

"It's no problem," Steve said. "Happy to help."

He set the can on the table. "So, you big on military history?"

"I like putting things where they go," Phil replied. "Military tactics, and the hows and whys of where they work? It's fascinating. It's politics at its most raw and it makes for a hell of a good time playing battle shots in college."

Steve laughed. "I'll take your word for it. I did my drinking in the Army. Ma would have my head if she found out I squandered my scholarships on beer pong."

"You and your Ma close, then?" he asked.

"About as close as you could expect," Steve said, rubbing his nose. "She was steamed when she found out I was going into the army instead of going to college straight off, but we couldn't afford it."

Steve went a little pink around the ears, and he cast his eyes down. Phil clapped him on the shoulder and took another sip of his beer. Nothing like the GI Bill to fund your dreams of higher education.

The young man glanced at his watch and swore softly. “Hell. I gotta go. I have a shift at the coffee shop down the street, and I need to grab a shower after all that. Rain check?”

“Sure,” Phil said. “We’ll get to it. You go on.”

Steve waved, taking his beer with him, and Phil sat back on the couch, staring at the boxes surrounding him. Nothing like unpacking after lugging all your stuff up the stairs. He drained his beer in a couple of swallows and set to work. He still had some off time before fall classes started, so he could afford to take time and get settled in.

He’d already met one of his neighbors. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

* * *

 

Steve, it turned out, was a full-time barista at the local coffee shop. Phil ended up popping in there his first morning for a cup of coffee before he took the subway to campus. He was cheerful and upbeat, smiling when Phil pushed his way into the shop, yawning.

"Well, hey," Steve said, leaning on the counter. "What can I get for you?"

"Blackeye, please," Phil said, struggling to get going. He made do with a single cup of coffee in the morning, but it was a hell of a cup of coffee, with two shots of espresso in it to jolt him awake on the subway.

Steve whistled. "You're a man who likes to live dangerously. I like it. Coming up. Cream, sugar?"

"Please, and make it the biggest one you have, if you would."

"You got it." Steve set the espresso machine to working, leaning on the counter again. "First day back for the teachers, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Phil said, struggling to be coherent. How the hell was Steve such a morning person? "I'll manage, somehow."

Steve laughed. "You look like someone dragged a raccoon through a puddle, Phil. Lemme get you breakfast, too."

Phil nodded, watching Steve squat in front of the pastry case. Steve pulled a danish from the case and straightened, quick hands nabbing the coffee and dosing it with two shots, cream, and sugar before putting a lid on it.

"There you go. Four ninety-five."

"The danish?" Phil asked.

"On the house today, go on, you look absolutely wrecked." Steve chuckled. "Besides, it'll keep you coming in, and lord knows I could use the regulars."

Phil nodded and stuffed a couple of crumpled bills in the tip jar, glancing at his watch. "I've gotta go."

"Don't be late, Prof," Steve said, waving him off. "Catch you later."

Phil walked out, clutching his backpack, coffee, and the small paper sack the danish came in. He made his way down into the bowels of New York, hitting the subway to campus. He sipped his coffee, and felt much more human. Whatever you said about Steve Rogers, the kid could make a cup of joe. Phil sighed into the cup, pleased, and then took a bite of his danish, feeling a little bit more ready for the beginning of the school year.

* * *

 

The university boasted a large campus, and Phil walked across the lawn, enjoying the crispness of the first real day of fall. He did like the later semester's starting point, even if it meant a little less time on winter break. September was a good time to start school, fresh from vacation and feeling much more up and about. He watched all the student groups bustling about.

There were the loners; the ones who went to class and then back to the dorms or their homes. They were either overachievers or they were just lonely and unable to make friends. Phil tended to have a soft spot for the lonely ones, remembering how it was in college before he and Clay had run across each other.

There were the typical jock and cheerleader groups, more concerned about their frats and sororities than they were about their GPAs. Phil liked them too, however. They were cheerful and usually ready to work when he came in, if only because they knew they needed to pass his class. He wasn't a difficult teacher to please, by any means, but he still expected hard work and dedication. Most of them called him Mister C and joked around with him, and he didn't mind that, either.

Phil paused outside the Fine Arts building. Steve said he was majoring in architecture. That was a good field to break into, if you could. He sipped the last of his coffee and dropped it in the trash can before heading over to his office and lecture hall to see what was what.

He was not pleased by what he saw. The lecture hall was tiny, and the desks and chairs were in poor repair. Phil scowled and checked out the blackboard. It needed replacing at best, a new coat of paint at worst, to prolong its life. The desk that was in the lecture hall itself was spindly, and looked to be falling apart. So much for department funding, he supposed. He sighed and paced around it, wondering if he set his backpack on it if it would collapse.

A knock at the door startled him, and he turned around. An older man with curly black hair leaned against the jamb; like Phil, he was dressed 'academic casual' -- a plaid shirt over a t-shirt, khakis and a blazer. Phil tilted his head, and smiled.

"Hi, can I help you?"

"Sure. If you're Professor Coulson?" the other asked.

Phil nodded. “That’s me."

"Bruce Banner," the man said, holding out a hand. Phil remembered Steve saying something about him as he shook hands.

"You teach physics, right?" he asked. Bruce seemed surprised that Phil had heard of him. "Mutual neighbor of ours, the Rogers kid? He mentioned you."

"Oh, okay," Bruce said. "I was wondering. You do live in 4-D then?"

 "You bet." Phil said, smiling.

"Good. I was wondering, if maybe you'd be up for carpooling in the mornings?" he asked. "I could use the company on my way, and honestly, since we're neighbors, it'll save you a bit on subway fare."

Phil's brows rose, surprised by the generosity. "Sure, I'd love to. That's nice of you."

"Well, wait until you see the awful case of road rage," Bruce said, grinning. "Good to meet you, though. You settling in?"

"Sort of," Phil said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Wondering if I can claim insurance if I set fire to the building and make them rebuild the whole damn thing."

Bruce snorted, but looked clearly amused. "Good luck with that. The dean won't replace anything unless it flat out endangers a student. A lot of this stuff is still from the fifties. And it shows."

"You're not kidding," Phil said.

"You want some help, we can see about fundraising." Bruce grinned at him. "Our least favorite task ever – schmoozing with the guys who make the big bucks."

"Well, you might know your way around, but this is the first time I've had to. My first year here, and I have no idea where to start."

Bruce laughed. "Don't worry. They come out of the woodwork if you promise food. Why not tag along at one of the university dinners coming up here in a month or so? You might find a connection that'll get you the funds you need."

A chirping ringtone cut through the air. Bruce looked down at his phone, and rolled his eyes. "Speaking of which...if you'll excuse me?"

Phil nodded, and Bruce flipped his phone open. "Yes, hello, Mister Stark. It's nice to hear from you, too. Funding? Really? Well, I'd be happy to discuss it with you, sure. When can I meet with you?"

He turned around, walking towards the door, and Phil couldn't help but hear the indignant squawk. "Drinks? I don't know, I told you I wasn't that kind of scientist."

Phil chuckled, turning back to the problem of the blackboard. He could, at least, find some paint to get it cleaned up. He had a week to do it, and he could set his curriculum in order, too.

* * *

 

Phil dusted his hands and sat back, his back creaking. He'd finally put all of his books away, and had decorated the apartment to his liking. Maps of the world with battles played out on them were framed and hung up, and he had even gone so far as to find a frame for his father's old world war medals. They hung in a place of honor behind his tiny television set. He put his hands on his hips and looked around before he broke down the last of the cardboard boxes. It was starting to feel lived in, the ratty little futon sofa joined by a pair of end tables and a coffee table, a chair he'd found at a thrift store, and a couple of quilts his mother had given him draped across the backs. It was cozy, and he smiled. He pulled out the chicken to defrost it, humming something soft.

He hadn't had anyone over yet, not counting Steve, and he still owed the young man a meal for the help. It didn't hurt that the kid was easy on the eyes and even easier to talk to. Phil didn't mention it, not wanting him uncomfortable, and that was probably for the best, considering.

While Steve wasn’t one of his students, he was still _a_ student, and that boded ill if he decided to walk down that path. He wasn’t planning on it, not in the slightest.

He sliced the chicken, thinning it into strips for fajitas, his radio tuned to Sinatra. He hummed along with it, dicing onions and slicing peppers, the tortillas warming in the oven. He poked his head out the door and noted that no one was about, so he stepped across the hall for a second.

4-F was kind of quiet, but he knocked anyway. He could hear shuffling inside, and then the door creaked open, the burglar stop catching it before it could open all the way. Another young man, dark eyed and brown-haired, peered out.

"Yeah, who're you?"

Phil raised a brow. "Um, your neighbor from 4-D. Is Steve in? I owe him dinner for helping me move in last week."

"Gimme a sec, I'll check." The face disappeared and the door closed. Phil shifted on his feet, wondering if he'd interrupted something. He could hear a thump, then a shouted **' _Yo, Stevie!'_** A heated discussion followed, and finally, Steve came to the door, unlocking it all the way and opening it.

"Sorry about that." He looked a little sheepish. "You said something about dinner?"

Phil nodded. "If I'm not interrupting anything?"

Steve glanced back into the darkened apartment. "Who, Bucky?"

"It's James!" came floating from somewhere behind him.

"You'll always be Bucky because you made me eat a worm in middle school. Can it, Barnes." Steve reddened. "Right, um. You're not interrupting anything. Lemme change my shirt and I'll be over. Should I bring anything?"

"Not at all. I have it covered. You a fan of wine at all?" he asked.

"Never really had a taste for it, but then again, I'm pretty sure I'll drink anything you'll give me."

"Good, then you're not going to complain about boxed wine," Phil said, chuckling.

"Not in the slightest. Be over in a second."

"Sure thing, the door's open." Phil padded back over, humming still as he pulled the tortillas out of the oven. The skillet was hot by then, and he set everything to cooking, turning the food over as it cooked. A knock sounded, and then Steve popped in, sniffing the air in appreciation.

"Didn't know you cooked," Steve said, leaning against the counter. "I was expecting pizza, as promised."

"Well, it was a rain check. I figured I owed you something a little nicer than pizza since you had to wait," Phil said. "Have a seat, make yourself at home."

Steve did, wandering into the living room and plopping down on the couch, looking around. "Looks like you got the place all fixed up. Looks good, Phil."

Phil chuckled. "I finally put the last of the boxes away this afternoon. You're the first guest I've had over."

"Lucky me." Steve grinned at him from the couch, and Phil's lips quirked. "You sure you don't want a hand or something?"

"I've got it. I'm old, not senile."

"You're not really all that old, Phil," Steve said.

"How old would you say I was?" When Steve shrugged and looked uncomfortable, Phil smiled. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

“Smells like you do. You want me to open the wine, at least?”

“Sure,” Phil said. “Punch a hole in the box and open ‘er up. Not like there’s class tomorrow.”

“Friday nights, right?” Steve grinned and popped it open. “I have a shift in the afternoon, but a glass or two won’t hurt, right?”

“What time tomorrow?” Phil asked.

“Three.”

“Then you’re fine. I promise I won’t let you drive home.”

Steve snickered and worked the box open, making a triumphant noise as he got the spout in.

“Glasses are top right, there above you.” Phil worked on plating fajitas and let the younger man get them settled. A couple of mason jars in hand and Steve carried the box into the dining nook for easier access. “Not exactly fancy, but good enough.”

“Better than I’ve eaten all week,” Steve replied and handed him a glass. Phil sipped at it, then dug in. It really wasn’t bad.

* * *

 

Three glasses in, and they’d moved to the couch, still chatting over Sinatra and Dean Martin. Phil put his feet up on the coffee table, wriggling his toes inside his socks. He was pleasantly squiffy, tipsy enough that he’d sleep well but not sloppy drunk, and that was good enough for him.

“So what’s the deal with your roommate?” Phil asked, leaning back and relaxing. “Seems like you know each other pretty well.”

“We grew up together,” Steve said, a fond smile lighting his face at the mention of Bucky. “His Ma and my Ma worked together. We had the same babysitter. He just got back from deployment again. He’s career military. He’s living with me because it helps me out. Ma says I’m lucky to have him. Try telling that to his socks. They walk across the floor.”

Phil laughed. He tried not to notice the way their knees kept bumping. Steve was easy to talk to, but Phil never was one to get his hopes up. Military didn’t mean straight laced, but it did mean certain things were frowned upon. Add to the fact that Steve was his neighbor, and he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“Sounds like Clay. We met in basic and never quite got away from hanging out. Maybe you’ll get to meet him one day. He’d like you.”

Steve took a sip of wine. “He ever get back to you?”

“Yeah, called me a day later talking about his new girlfriend. Head over heels for her, but Clay was always one to love easy and get his heart broken.” Phil shrugged. “What about you, I’d figure you to be popular. Art student, good looking kid like you?”

Steve cut his eyes at Phil, and he wondered if the subtle question wasn’t so subtle. He planted his feet on the floor and set his wine down, realizing he may have crossed a line.

“Sorry,” Phil said, turning as Steve set his wine down. The action unbalanced him, and he ended up sprawling a little closer, almost on top of Steve. He didn’t seem to mind, and helped Phil settle up against the back of the couch again.

“It’s no problem,” Steve said, distant. “Just looking for the right partner, I guess. I don’t date much.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Phil said. “The life of a bachelor is a many splendored thing. Drinking box wine out of mason jars.”

Steve laughed. “That, I think, is the highlight of bachelordom.”

Phil raised a brow. “Are you mocking my cardboardeaux? I will have you know, that was a particularly fine vintage, almost nine whole dollars for the box.”

Steve leaned over to grab his glass, grinning. “No, sir, not mocking you or your fine box wine.”

Phil huffed. “Good.”

Steve drained his glass in a couple of long swallows, and Phil watched the muscles of his neck work. He realized he was staring, and shook his head. The action made him dizzy, and he decided that leaning against Steve’s shoulder was a good idea. Steve cleared his throat, and Phil looked up, realizing they were uncomfortably close.

“Sorry,” he said again. He made to stand, but only ended up sliding a little closer. “I don’t normally drink this much, and it’s showing.”

“It’s all right. I’d better get going anyway, it’s close to eleven.” Steve made to stand, but Phil’s hand on his chest stopped him. They were nose to nose now, and Phil couldn’t quite quantify how he’d gotten there. Steve looked up at him, blue eyes gone a little wide.

“You’re a good guy, Steve,” Phil said, and kissed him. Steve’s mouth opened in shock, or protest, but there was nothing but a small sound that Phil swallowed. Steve was awkward, but melted a little into pliancy by Phil cupping his jaw and nipping a little at his lip. He could taste the wine on Steve’s tongue, and he pulled back, blinking a little like an owl before realizing what he’d done. Steve was stiff, his mouth working, and Phil backed off, embarrassed all to hell.

Jesus, he was an idiot.

“I’m…gonna go,” Steve said, and rose with a jerky movement. It was like watching a puppet in the hands of a beginner, and Phil looked away, ashamed that he’d broken the mood of the evening with a drunken decision. “Have a good night, Phil.”

The door shut behind him, and Phil buried his head in his hands.


	2. 02 - Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is confused. His mother is adamant. Bucky is...well, Bucky, and Darcy is, well, awesome.

Sunday dinner with his mother was tradition, and Steve liked getting home for a proper meal. And by proper meal, he meant that his mother had greens and roast and potatoes, a proper Irish family dinner. It was just him and his Ma now, after all this time. Steve couldn't say that he missed his dad. His dad had passed a long time ago, when Steve was eight. His Ma, the tough old bird, had raised him on her own, taking up a job as a seamstress and making ends meet with a garden and a coop of chickens she kept behind the house.

Steve shoveled another helping of greens on his plate, chewing as his mother talked. He didn't tell her everything, but it was damn close, and she was talking about college now.

"This professor, the one who moved in next door, he doesn't teach at the law school, does he?" she asked. He took a swallow from his glass of milk.

"No, Ma. He teaches military history." Steve cut into his roast. "He seems to like it a lot. He has maps and things in the boxes I carried up, and the university wouldn't have hired him if he didn't know his stuff."

"I still wish you'd go into the law practice, Steven," she said, turning sharp brown eyes on him. Steve almost flinched, but he took a bite and didn't say anything. "You're not going to find a guaranteed job if you're not doing something important."

"I have a job, Ma. I'm looking to do something I love," he said, quiet. She pursed her lips.

"Do what you love on your own time. You can draw on your days off. I want you to be successful, Steven."

"Ma, you want me successful at what you want me to do. If I'm not happy, I won't feel successful."

"How do you expect to support a family on that type of salary?" she asked. "I won't stand for my grandbabies to be undernourished."

"Ma, I don't even have a girlfriend," he said, suppressing the urge, just barely, to roll his eyes. "You're jumping the gun just a bit, aren't you?"

Sarah Rogers pursed her lips again. "I think you should be looking at providing for your family anyway, Steven."

"Ma, it'll be fine. I have to find the right person, that's all." Steve took another bite, and wondered what Phil would think of his mother, which was an odd thought in and of itself. Steve had never been one to latch on to people, standing in the shadows and offering help where needed, but not clinging. With Phil, however, it was different. Steve found he liked the idea of knowing the man's opinion. He was sensible, and good natured.

His mother was calling his name, however, and he snapped his attention back to the table.

"Sorry, Ma, I wasn't listening, I didn't mean to daydream." He cut another bite of his roast, shoving it into his mouth and thoughts of his new neighbor away.

* * *

 

Steve was fond of the morning shift. It left plenty of time in the day to get out and do things, and it left time for classes in the afternoon. As a junior this year, Steve had the option of a lot more afternoon classes, and he was more than ready to tackle the new semester. He wiped down the counter, making sure the spilled coffee was cleaned up, and the overhead chime of the bell caught his attention. Phil dragged in, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and the most tired expression on his face Steve had ever seen. He looked like a raccoon dragged through a puddle, and he said as much, fixing Phil's coffee with practiced ease.

It was endearing, really, seeing the man standing there blinking as though he'd just rolled out of bed. For all Steve knew, he probably had. He had the insane urge to tell him to go back to bed. Still, though, he got him a pastry, bagging it up with his coffee and taking his time with it. Phil seemed like he was a little more human after the first sip, and that was gratifying. Knowing that he could make the Professor's day a little easier had him smiling as Phil left. The morning rush hadn't started yet, and he got back on task, humming a little under his breath.

* * *

 

When he got home, Bucky was sitting on the couch. He'd just gotten home from deployment, it looked like. Steve caught sight of him as Bucky stood, beer in hand. He gave a whoop and clapped his best friend on the back before pulling him into a bear hug. Bucky grinned and was squeezed in Steve's hug for a moment before stepping back and punching him on the shoulder.

"You miss me?"

"Hell yes." Steve grinned. "You just get back?"

"This morning. Didn't want to bother you at the shop, so I grabbed a nap and some breakfast."

"Does this mean we're going out?" Steve asked, eyeing the beer in Bucky's hand.

"Damn right it does. I'm itching to get out of here and see something other than your ugly mug."

"Punk."

"Jerk."

Steve grinned. It was really good to have Bucky home.

* * *

 

Steve could do without the clubs that Bucky chose, though. He might be his best friend, but the noisy, crowded spaces pinged his senses in all the wrong ways, and he didn't like it. He decided to sit in the corner for a bit, clear his head. He wasn't the designated driver tonight; that had fallen on Sam's shoulders, but it was still too hot and too noisy for him. The music's pounding thump was starting a sympathetic headache in his skull, and he didn't like it.

"Someone sitting here?" said a voice in his ear. He jumped, then saw a pretty blonde in a long sweater and leggings, knee boots and a scarf. She was holding a drink, and he stood, helping her into the booth.

"Just me," he said, talking loud to be heard over the music. She smiled at him, big blue eyes that made his heart thump in his chest. "I'm Steve."

"Peggy," she said, holding out a hand. He swapped his beer to the other hand and took it. "I appreciate it. I'm just a little tired of the dance floor, and I don't want to bug my friends."

She inclined her head to a table across the way, and Steve saw Bucky in the middle of a couple of girls, chatting them up. He resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his palm. "That'll be my friend, Bucky."

"Bucky?" she asked. "He said his name was James."

"Bucky's a nickname," he said, smiling. "He'll kill me if he knows I told you, so you didn't hear it from me."

She laughed, and his spirits rose a little. "Your secret's safe with me."

Maybe these clubs weren't all bad after all.

* * *

 

He went home with Peggy's number in his pocket, and that was more than Bucky got. He didn't make a mention of it, just made up some bacon and eggs for them both as his best friend nursed a hangover at the kitchen table. He smiled into the pan as Bucky gave a groan, his head hidden in his arms.

"Why did I think shots were a good thing?" he asked.

"You always think shots are a good thing, Buck," he said, cracking an egg over the skillet. Bucky rolled his head up to glare at Steve with bloodshot eyes. "You do. You tried to get me to take body shots in Cancun, remember?"

"I remember," Bucky said. "That Natalia chick was hot."

"I don't think that was her name," Steve said.

"The way she was screaming it, you'd think James was her name," he said, leering at Steve. Steve flicked an eggshell at him. It stuck to Bucky's forehead, and the man groaned. "Be nice, I'm a wounded man."

"Self-inflicted wounds don't count." Steve plated the eggs and bacon and carried them to the table. "Besides, you're already in trouble if you think that's bad. I know the next door neighbors are going to be renovating all day."

"Damn it, are you serious?" he asked, grumbling. "Just what I need."

"Hey, you're the one who insisted on shots last night," Steve said, digging into his breakfast. Bucky just groaned.

* * *

 

"Yo, Stevie!" came rattling through his closed bedroom door. Steve stood, stretching, and scrubbed the tiredness from his eyes before closing his book. He'd had just enough studying anyway. There wasn't much more his brain could handle. He opened the door to a shirtless Bucky, leering at him.

"What's up?" he asked, not liking the look in Bucky's eyes.

 ”Guy at the door. Says he's our neighbor across the hall. Says he owes you dinner." Bucky's eyebrows rose. "You got somethin' you ain't tellin' me, Stevie?"

"For one, 'Stevie' was a twelve year old with asthma and buck teeth," he said, glaring at Bucky. "And for another, what are you implying?"

"You got a dude askin' you over for dinner, that's what I'm implyin'. I wouldn't love you any less, you know -- " Bucky gave a yelp as Steve's hand shot out, and he danced out of reach of the noogie that Steve was about to deliver. "Hey, man, don't shoot the messenger, he's at the door."

"I will kill you," Steve growled. Bucky just laughed and went back to his show, collapsing into the recliner. Steve opened the door. Phil raised a brow at him, and Steve found himself flushing for no good reason. He did like Phil, valued his opinion. "Sorry, you said something about dinner?"

Phil nodded. "If I'm not interrupting anything?"

Steve glanced back into the darkened apartment. "Who, Bucky?"

"It's James!" came floating from somewhere behind him.

"You'll always be Bucky because you made me eat a worm in middle school. Can it, Barnes." Steve reddened. "Right, um. You're not interrupting anything. Lemme change my shirt and I'll be over. Should I bring anything?"

"Not at all. I have it covered. You a fan of wine at all?" he asked.

"Never really had a taste for it, but then again, I'm pretty sure I'll drink anything you'll give me."

"Good, then you're not going to complain about boxed wine," Phil said, chuckling.

"Not in the slightest. Be over in a second."

* * *

 

Dinner was good. Phil was, if nothing else, an excellent cook. Steve found he liked the wine, too. For something that came out of a box, it did taste good with the fajitas. He wondered, in the back of his head, if Phil had planned something bigger for him like this on purpose. He made a note to smack Bucky upside the head later for planting the idea in his brain.

He liked talking with Phil. Phil was animated, gesturing with his hands or his fork as he made a comment or a point, and Steve wondered if he had the same energy in his classes. Steve debated on sitting in on one of them, if that was how he taught. He was drawn to people who had a passion for something, anything. It was nice to see it in Phil.

"And that's why you always check for fire ants while you bivouac," Phil said, chuckling. Steve snorted into his glass. They'd been talking army life for the past hour, and Steve didn't even notice the lateness of the hour. That was certainly something. He helped clear the table, still chatting with Phil, and the professor didn't seem to mind him sticking around.

They moved into the living room as if they'd done this thousands of times before, and Phil propped his feet up on the table. He gave his socked toes a wiggle, and Steve wondered, as tipsy as he was, exactly how much wine was affecting Phil. He had to admit, it was nice seeing the kind of uptight Phil relax. Still, they hadn’t run out of things to talk about, and Phil was cheerful and expressive.

Steve was warm, the wine making him a little flushed, but nothing bad. Phil leaned against his shoulder, the tiny futon not big enough for him alone, much less the two of them. Their knees bumped, and Steve went back to his wine, suddenly nervous.

“So what’s the deal with your roommate?” Phil asked, leaning back and relaxing. “Seems like you know each other pretty well.”

“We grew up together,” Steve said, a fond smile lighting his face at the mention of Bucky. “His Ma and my Ma worked together. We had the same babysitter. He just got back from deployment again. He’s career military. He’s living with me because it helps me out. Ma says I’m lucky to have him. Try telling that to his socks. They walk across the floor.”

Phil laughed, at a stupid joke, and Steve found his mood improving more. Phil was like a furnace, and Steve didn’t mind, oddly enough. He was comfortable here, which was saying something after a couple conversations and then occasional hellos in the hallway. Phil was smart, he was funny, and Steve liked being around him.

“Sounds like Clay. We met in basic and never quite got away from hanging out. Maybe you’ll get to meet him one day. He’d like you.”

Steve took a sip of wine. “He ever get back to you?”

“Yeah, called me a day later talking about his new girlfriend. Head over heels for her, but Clay was always one to love easy and get his heart broken.” Phil shrugged. “What about you, I’d figure you to be popular. Art student, good looking kid like you?”

“Sorry,” Phil said, turning as Steve set his wine down. The action unbalanced him, and he ended up sprawling a little closer, almost on top of Steve.

“It’s no problem,” Steve said, distant. “Just looking for the right partner, I guess. I don’t date much.”

He didn’t, either, much to his mother’s consternation. She’d been hounding him for months, trying to get him to settle down, think of his future. He was twenty-three, though. He wasn’t looking for something long term. He was having fun as he was. He had his friends, the wrestling team, and his art classes. He was happy.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Phil said. “The life of a bachelor is a many splendored thing. Drinking box wine out of mason jars.”

Steve laughed. “That, I think, is the highlight of bachelordom.”

Phil raised a brow. “Are you mocking my cardboardeaux? I will have you know, that was a particularly fine vintage, almost nine whole dollars for the box.”

Steve leaned over to grab his glass, grinning. That tore it. Phil was drunk. “No, sir, not mocking you or your fine box wine.”

Phil huffed. “Good.”

Steve looked down, cutting his eyes over at Phil. Phil seemed to sense the change in the water, and he moved away, or tried. The futon was really too small, and he stumbled, landing on Steve’s chest and ending up nose to nose. Steve tried to stammer out something about how he should go, but Phil fit his chest, warm and far too close.

“You’re a good guy,” Phil said, and kissed him. Steve’s mouth opened, whether in protest or in surprise, even he didn’t know. Phil took the opportunity presented and deepened the kiss. Steve felt himself melting a little bit under it, because it was _nice_ , the scrape of his stubble and the press of his tongue. Phil sat back, blinking at him, and the sound Steve made was almost disappointed. He reigned himself in, conflict swirling around his head.

“I’m…gonna go,” Steve said, and rose with a jerky movement. “Have a good night, Phil.”

He stumbled across the hall, thankful that Bucky was asleep when he locked up for the night. He collapsed into bed, throwing an arm over his eyes, and tried to sleep. Phil’s face floated in front of his closed eyes, including the hangdog look he’d had when Steve had shot up off the couch.

Phil was a nice guy.

That was the problem. He was a guy.

Steve shifted in bed, grumbling a little as he kicked the blankets off. What the hell had just happened? He’d never had it happen to him before. He’d never been one to kiss and tell, and his girlfriends had moved in and out of his life as much as he had moved through theirs. There had never been much time for kissing and…all of that.

He’d deployed pretty quick, heading out to the Iraq desert and serving his time in the sandpit. He was back now, and it was time to think about the future, as much as he hated reiterating his Ma’s words. She wouldn’t like this, not at all. His ma was old-fashioned like that. Not that there was anything wrong with it.

It just wasn’t him.

He needed to sleep. He was already going to be jumpy as hell in the hallway.

Damn it, why him? Why now?

Bucky’s words taunted him. He groaned, pressing his eyes closed until he could see spots in his vision. He would have to talk to Phil about what had gone on. For now, he’d give it time to cool off, for Phil to get his head straight, and for him to get his own set.

He needed to sleep.

When he decided he couldn’t, he pulled out his phone and shot a text to a number he hadn’t thought about in a couple of days.

[To: Peggy] _Want to hang out this weekend?_

He didn’t expect the chirp of his phone as it buzzed on his nightstand. He picked it up. She must have been up studying, because there was a reply.

_Sure. Are you free Friday?_

[To: Peggy] _Yeah, sounds great. Want to see a movie?_

_Sure. Pick me up at eight?_

[To: Peggy] _I’ll be there. Have a good night._

_You too._

He closed his eyes, the guilt easing a little bit. He drifted off, his alarm set for a morning jog and then breakfast. Maybe he’d forget by then.

* * *

 

He took to avoiding Phil in the halls.

His neighbor had a set schedule, and he knew when Phil was heading down to check his mail or when he was heading to class. He left later than Steve did, which made it easy for him to sneak downstairs to work and campus.

He wasn’t running, he told himself. He wasn’t.

He knew better, but he also didn’t know what he’d say to Phil if he did meet him. School and work shifted his worries elsewhere, and he never saw Phil in the coffee shop on his shifts. He knew he’d been there, because his coworkers talked about and liked him, but it seemed like Phil was respecting his space.

Steve appreciated it, even as it made him feel guilty. Phil had been just as tipsy as he’d been, and Steve hadn’t…well, said no. He’d liked it. That was the most disturbing part. He’d never done anything like it before, kissing another guy, hadn’t even pinged his radar as being curious, even with the rumors about Bucky and himself in high school.

Steve sighed, scrubbing out the milk steamer with renewed vigor. He wasn’t going to finish on time if he kept gathering wool.

Darcy slapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Steve?” she asked, leaning on the counter and popping her gum. He liked Darcy, in the ‘annoying kid-sister’ way. She was a good kid, worked hard and had a cheerful outlook on life that rivaled his own.

Steve looked around. There was no one in the shop at the moment, and it was quiet, save for the musak that poured from the overhead speakers. He glanced down at Darcy, who proceeded to hop up on the counter and watch him with large, dark eyes.

“Not much,” he said, rinsing the metalling drum of the steamer. “School stuff. Planning some projects.”

“Really?” Darcy asked, kicking her feet back and forth. “Here I thought you were pining just as hard for the professor as he was for you.”

Steve almost dropped the lid he was holding. He gave her a careful look, hooded and suspicious. “What?”

“Your neighbor. You know, the older dude? Blazers, work shirts with the top couple of buttons undone, rocking the black framed glasses and the adorable ‘I’m a cool teacher’ vibe?” Darcy grinned at him. “I think he’s shy. He comes by in the morning and waits until you go on break to order his coffee.”

“What?” Steve felt a little like a parrot. Phil was coming in on his shifts? He’d never seen him. “I would have seen him.”

“He peeks in from outside. If you’re here, he waits at one of the tables outside. He always makes sure to book it for the door before you get back.” She smiled, obviously pleased she’d spotted something Steve hadn’t. “Don’t tell him I tattled on you if you end up hitting it, though. He’ll stop tipping me.”

Steve scowled. “I’m not gay.”

“And? What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, raising a plucked brow at him. “He likes you, Steve. If you don’t like him back, that’s chill, but the way he checks to see if you’re here, it’s obvious he’s crushing pretty hard. Then again, who wouldn’t?”

He flushed, glaring at her before he finished the morning shift dishes and clattered them into the rack to dry. She hopped down, and put a hand on his forearm, looking up at him.

“Steve, chill out.” She squeezed, and he realized his fists were clenched. “Okay, I know it might be a big deal for you to find out, but…cut him some slack. He’s not going to act on it if you don’t give him positive reinforcement. We’ve talked a lot, and he seems like a sweetheart. If you don’t feel that way about him, it’s fine.”

“I’m fine, Darcy,” he said. “I have a date on Friday, anyway.”

“Ooooh,” she said. “Who’s the lucky one?”

“Girl I met while I was out with Bucky. Her name is Peggy,” Steve said. “She’s nice.”

“Good! Get your groove back, girlfriend.” She flipped some of her curly brown hair over her shoulder and settled in to count the drawer. “You have fun in class, m’kay? And…be nice. I know you came from a super Catholic family where you think if it feels good you should stop, but Steve? He’s nice, and so you should be nice too.”

“I am nice,” Steve growled.

“Sure are, to people who’ve earned your respect. You’re also a stubborn buttface when you think you’re in the right. There is no right or wrong here, just feelings, okay?” She patted his arm, a stack of singles in one hand. “Remember that, young grasshopper, and you will have mastered the first step to not being a massive douchenugget to people who like you.”

Steve rolled his eyes and punched out, bumping her hip with his own as he grabbed up his backpack.

* * *

 

It had been almost a month since he’d seen Phil face to face, and he knew he should talk to him. They were ghosts to each other in the hallway. Steve was gone in the morning before Phil was, and Phil’s door shut long after Steve was home in the evenings. School and work cut into his free time, and he was sure Phil was just a busy. He was popping out to check the mail and stopped, face to face with the man in question.

Damn _damn_ **_damn_**.

Phil paused, clearing his throat, then turned to lock his apartment. “Hi.”

“You’re home early.” Steve wanted to bang his head against the wall. That wasn’t what he wanted to blurt out, it showed that he was tracking Phil’s movements. “I mean–“

“It’s fine. I know what you meant, Mister Rogers.” Phil gave him a sardonic half-smile. “Good to see you again.”

He jogged down the stairs and left Steve feeling like a complete and total asshole. Before he could call out, the footsteps faded away. He resigned himself to go downstairs and check the mail.

_Nothing but bills and a big fat mouth_ , he thought.

* * *

 

He and Peggy got along like a house on fire. She was funny, though she was busy. Pre-med would do that to you. He took her out for sushi and a movie. To his surprise, she picked an action flick. He felt better about putting his arm around her then, and she leaned into his side. All in all, he felt like it was a good date.

“You want to go out again next weekend?” he asked as he walked her to her dorm.

“I can’t, I’ve got a lab I have to prep for,” she said, pausing in front of the door. She stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth. Steve turned his head, and caught the kiss, making it something sweet and chaste instead. She pulled back, smiling. “Tell you what…I’ll call you.”

“Sounds good,” he said, licking his lips a little. She tasted like strawberry lip gloss. She headed into her dorm, and he caught a cab back home. He pushed into the building, getting caught on the door for a moment. He was all smiles as he made his way up the stairs.

4-D was closed, and Steve didn’t even give it a thought as he worked the lock on his apartment door. All was as it should be…mostly. He drank down a glass of water and fell into bed, grinning. He liked Peggy.

_Not bad for a second kiss this month_ , he thought, then swatted the idea away from his brain. He frowned, knowing he still needed to talk to Phil. Sighing, he rolled over and looked at the clock. Just before ten. He had an early shift at the coffee shop. If Darcy was right, and he came in when Steve was working, then he could corner him during his lunch break.

It was Saturday tomorrow, and Steve didn’t even know if Phil would show up, but he wanted to at least try. It was the least he could do. He rolled onto his stomach and burrowed into his pillow.

It would all work out. He was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are you all subscribing to this my god, hahahaha.
> 
> I honestly have no idea what I'm doing don't look at me. I'm using this as warmup sprints for RP shh.
> 
> But if you're enjoying it, good on you!


	3. Interlude: Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Buchanan Barnes, professional pain in the ass.

Bucky hated the desert. He could never get his sinuses to work right while he was out in Baghdad, but he was happy to be home, in the dirt and smog of New York. He caught a cab from the airport. He traipsed up the stairs to the apartment, dropping his gear in his room, digging in the pantry for bread, peanut butter and jelly, and then rooting through the fridge for milk. He made himself a couple of sandwiches and stuffed his face. He'd never admit it, but he almost cried taking the first bite. It was really good to be home. He hopped in the shower, scrubbing the sand from his pores, and slouched through the apartment in his pajama pants. He had air conditioning. Good god central air felt good.

He sprawled on the couch, turned on cartoons, and let his brain shut off for a bit. He dozed until he heard keys in the lock, and then Steve was walking through the door. His best friend let out a whoop when he saw him, and he hugged Steve for all he was worth. He'd been gone for six months, he was allowed to be a little mushy.

"You just get in?" Steve asked.

"This morning," Bucky said. "I was waiting for you to get off shift."

"That mean we're going out?" Steve asked.

"Hell yes it means we're going out," Bucky said, grinning. "Since when does James Barnes sit in his apartment on a Friday night with his thumb up his ass? Since never."

Steve laughed, and Bucky padded into his room to get ready, while Steve did the same.

* * *

 

He wasn't fond of the loud music of the club, to be honest, but the drinks were cheap and the women were always ready to dance, and that was enough for Bucky. He settled into a booth with Steve, handing him a beer. He was ready and on the prowl for someone to have fun with, whatever the case may be. The last time he'd been home, he dragged Steve to a strip club, but he'd learned better after the dancers had all sat and cooed over how cute Steve was while ignoring his actual money. He didn't get it. The guy was a chick magnet, so long as you were willing to lose the same chick to his downright wholesome charm. Bucky shook his head. Steve Rogers, everyone.

"I'm gonna go check out the dance floor. You sure you don't want to come?" he yelled over the music.

"I'm sure. I can't dance to save my life."

"Let me get my Ruger, I'll make you dance," Bucky said, and mimed shooting a gun at Steve's feet.

"Either go dance or we go home. Poor Sam is already pissed he has to DD." Steve waved him off, nursing his beer.

"Fine, fine. You're both the worst spoilsports ever. And I do mean ever!" he called over his shoulder.

He was pretty sure big dumb farm boys weren't supposed to flip you the bird, but then again, Steve Rogers had always been full of surprises. He bellied up to the bar, checking out the crowd. Hm, not much of a choice, unless he wanted to try breaking one out of a group of women that always seemed to congregate at these types of places. He frowned, slugging back a beer.

A group of girls caught his eye. Three of them, one a brunette and two blondes, one of whom slipped off to hit the dance floor. He moseyed over, beer in hand.

"Ladies," he said, grinning. They both raised their brows at him, but he smiled. "My name is James, can I buy you lovely ladies a round of drinks?"

"I'm Jessica," said the brunette. "Make it shots, and we'll make it worth your while."

"Done," he said, his laughter shaking his shoulders. "And your friend? What's your poison, doll?"

"Name's Bobbi, and if we're doing shots, it's going to be tequila," she said, flipping her straight blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Excellent. I'll break out the lime wedges and salt." James flagged down a waitress, who took his fifty and nodded, returning with a bottle, shot glasses, and paraphernalia.

"Where'd Peggy go?" Jessica asked after a minute. "She always walks away right as we're about to do shots."

"She's pre-med, so she sucks," replied Bobbi. She shifted out of the booth so that Bucky could slide in, and bolstered him on one side. Jessica scooted closer.

Bucky glanced at Steve's table, about to suggest they head that way, when he noticed their friend talking to Steve. "I'd say she's got her hands full. That's my buddy Steve. He's kind of shy, but he's a gentleman."

"Are you a gentleman?" Jessica asked as he poured the tequila into the shot glasses.

"Who, me?" he asked. "Hell no. I'm an asshole, but I'm buying the drinks, so isn't that what matters?"

"Hey, at least you're honest," Jessica said, grinning as she salted her hand. She picked up the shot glass and Bobbi did the same.

"Salud!" he said, and they knocked back their round. Bucky licked the back of his hand, popping a wedge of lime in his mouth and shaking off the burn of the alcohol. Jessica laughed, tossing back her shot like a pro. Bobbi leaned into his shoulder, winking at him.

"You just bought a couple of professional drinkers a bottle of tequila. You're going to get white girl wasted," she said.

"I love New York," was all that he replied, and poured out three more shots.

* * *

 

"I hate New York," Bucky groaned, burying his head in his arms at the kitchen table. Steve chuckled from where he was standing at the stove, and the smell of bacon drifted through the air, making his stomach roll. He groaned, tucking his nose into the crook of his elbow.

"You were the one who insisted on buying shots last night." Steve turned the bacon over with a fork. “You know that never ends up well for you.”

“I’d disagree with you if I could remember what happened.”

“You hugged Sam, told him he was a son of a bitch, and then puked on his shoes.” Steve turned the bacon again, the hiss of the cooking food making him raise his voice a little. Bucky groaned and popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth, sipping gingerly at the glass of water in front of him.

“Is he pissed?” Bucky asked.

“It’s Sam. No more than usual. He said that if you decided to be a bro and buy him a new pair of Adidas he wouldn’t punch your shit.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’ll take the punch and clean his shoes.”

“Did you even get their numbers?” Steve asked, tucking into his breakfast. How the hell he could be so _cheerful_ in the middle of the morning was beyond Bucky. He both admired and hated Steve for it, because the bastard sang in the shower when he knew Bucky had been out the night before.

“I didn’t,” he said, fingers reaching out to swipe a piece of bacon off Steve’s plate. Steve tried to stab him with his fork, and Bucky jerked his hand back. Steve pushed a plate in front of him, and he nibbled on toast instead.

“Bad luck. You going out again?” he asked.

“Might.” Bucky broke a piece of bacon in half, munching on it. “Depends on if I can shake the hangover or not.”

“You’re going to have to do without me,” Steve chuckled. "I have a shift at the coffee shop. Besides, you're already in trouble if you think that's bad. I know the next door neighbors are going to be renovating all day."

"Damn it, are you serious?" he asked, grumbling. "Just what I need."

"Hey, you're the one who insisted on shots last night," Steve said, digging into his breakfast. Bucky just groaned.

* * *

 

He went down to get the mail, and on his way back up the stairs, he almost knocked a woman over as he rounded the balustrade. He caught her, steadying her before she could tumble down the stairs, a large box in her hands.

"Whoa there," he said, smiling before he met her eyes. She was gorgeous, red hair cut into a soft bob that framed her face, a leather jacket covering a t-shirt and a trendy pair of jeans topped off with ballet flats. He liked what he saw, but the recognition set in when he met her eyes.

"Oh, shit."

_("Are you going back home today?"_

_"Yeah, I have to. I'm sorry, Nat."_

_"Let me give you my phone number, at least."_

_"Nat, please don't make this harder than it has to be."_

_"James, are you serious?"_

_"It was just a fling, Nat!")_

She tilted her head. "Can I help you?"

"Natalia?" he asked. She stiffened. "You have to be kidding me. Oh shit. You were in Cancun...and we..."

"I'm afraid I have no idea about it," she said, her green eyes going hard and her voice going cold. "I'm late, excuse me."

"Nat, wait." But she was gone. "Damn."

He had to know if she lived here. That would be a hell of a thing, wouldn't it? He paused, watching her round the staircase. She was gorgeous, and she had always been on his mind.

"Just great," Bucky said. "Ghosts in the stairwells, what next?"

* * *

 

He didn't stop by the shop as he went out, because from the look of things, Steve was swamped. There was their neighbor over in 4-D, whatever the hell his name was. He was sitting outside and writing in a little journal, and Bucky passed by without a thought. Steve could keep his secrets. He wasn't ashamed of who he was, and that was something that made Bucky proud. If something had really been going on, Steve would have said something.

Bucky trusted that was the case, at least.

He met up with Sam, and after a punch in the arm that left him swearing, they went and killed time for a good while before the sun went down. Bucky was a night owl. He always had been, and New York's night life was the best part of the place for him. He loved a good club, one that had a lot of women ready to dance or at the very least talk. He could talk circles around most anyone, and women were no exception. Still, he wasn't a bad looking guy, if he said so himself, and he always had company if he wanted it.

It was all a matter of knowing where to look.

Sam Wilson, it turned out, had always known where to look. It was, Bucky mused, one of the many reasons they were friends. The other was that Sam knew how to get into the clubs that required a cover Scott-free most of the time. As a local DJ for the electronica scene, it seemed like everyone knew Sam.

Bucky was used to being the sidekick most nights, tagging along under the guise of being Sam’s friend. He didn’t feel that way with Steve, always sidling up with a girl for Steve, playing wingman. He’d never had to do that with Sam, who went mainly to keep his contacts in place. He had a steady girlfriend, and Bucky had never understood why Sam was out partying without her.

Maybe it was just the scene they were in. Still, Sam had a set tonight, and Bucky was happy to lug equipment up in exchange for no cover charge and a couple of free drinks.

He dragged in the extra speakers, setting them where he was told, and then bellied up to the bar while Sam did sound check with the in house DJ.

“You Falcon’s friend?” Someone asked, and Bucky looked over. A lean guy, with his hair either dyed that pale blonde or naturally that pale, he couldn’t tell, leaned his elbows on the bar. DJ Falcon was Sam’s stage name, and Bucky nodded, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, he’s a friend of mine,” Bucky said. The whippet-thin man nodded, grabbing his own drink and scooting closer.

“Name’s Pietro. That’s my sister, Wanda,” he said, jerking his thumb down the bar at a pretty, slender brunette in cutoffs and a shirt cut to expose her midriff. Bucky leaned over to look.

“Nice,” he said, and Pietro’s face soured like milk.

“Don’t hit on my sister, dickhead,” he snapped, pointing with his bottle. “I’ll mess you up.”

“What the hell,” Bucky said, holding his hands up in a peacemaking gesture. “I didn’t mean anything by it, man, chill out.”

Pietro gave him a long look, but then relaxed, leaning against the bar again. “You here to party, or just to haul shit around?”

“Depends.” Bucky took a swig of his beer. “What did you have in mind?”

“Got something that’s great for the electronica bullshit they play in here,” Pietro said, handing him a bottle. Inside the clear plastic was a red pill, a blue pill, and two small yellow pills. “Take those a half hour before the show, you’ll see what I mean.”

Bucky looked at it, skeptical. “Sorry, man, I’m military. They screen for this kind of shit.”

“Completely safe, man,” Pietro said. “Nothing to it. Not gonna come up on a screen. It’s just Salvia.”

“You smoke Salvia.” Bucky raised his eyebrows at him. Pietro scowled.

“Well, if you know so much, I’ll give out the samples elsewhere.” Pietro snatched the bottle, pushed off the bar, and stalked off. Bucky shook his head and took another swig of his beer.

“Pietro’s…high strung,” came a voice, and Bucky looked over. Wanda inclined her head, long, dark hair falling over her shoulder as she took a sip of whatever fruity drink she was enjoying. Bucky smiled.

“It’s fine. It looks like my night’s looking up,” he said. She laughed. “Buy you a drink?”

“I already have one. Tell you what, you can buy me some shots later.”

“Deal.”

* * *

 

Falcon’s set went off without a hitch that night, and Bucky ended up just sober enough to help him get his gear home. Wanda slipped him her phone number, with the promise that her brother wouldn’t be in the way next time. All in all, he considered it a good night. He staggered up the stairs, almost bumping into his neighbor from 4-D.

The older guy looked surprised, then cleared his throat. “Mister Barnes.”

“That’s my name,” Bucky said, feeling cheeky. “Out for another midnight creep on Stevie?”

Phil frowned, even though he was reddening as they spoke. “So he told you, then?”

“Told me what?” Bucky asked, a gleam hitting his eye. Steve would already be trying to shove his own socks in his mouth, but Phil didn’t know him that well. “Something happen?”

“Nothing that concerns you, I’m sure.” Phil fixed him with a quelling look, which Bucky ignored. “If he wanted you to know, I’m sure he’d tell you.”

“I dunno, if you’re badtouching my best friend, Mrs. Robinson, I think I’m supposed to know.” He leered at Phil, and saw his fist clench. “You _are_. Holy shit.”

“I’m not,” Phil said. “But you’re not much of a friend if you’re talking about him this way. Good evening, Mister Barnes.”

“Or what, you’ll pull that stick out of your ass and beat me to death with it?” Bucky leaned over the banister, watching Phil go. He decided to talk to Steve about it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, you little shit. Stop making things even worse. *shakes head* Anyway. New Phil chapter coming shortly. Just wanted a brief interlude to give everyone a break.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying!
> 
> Lywinis

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have no idea what I'm doing, but here you go. It won't leave me alone until I write it and post it, and what better way to pass the time when the RP group is all off watching Iron Man 3? Yeah, that's right.


End file.
